“New beginnings. One that can make the House of Phoenix more powerful than the House of Red ever could have dreamt,” Ophiuchi extended a hand towards those present.
The Minister looked at the Fairy with great curiosity, “And who precisely is the House of Phoenix?”
“From the ashes that are the House of Red, a new House, a glorious House shall rise and claim their proper place in the realm!” Ophiuchi’s deep voice bellowed smoky tendrils extended outwards in all directions from behind the Fairies back, as clenched fists rise into the air. All present were entranced by the Fairies speech, and promise.
“How can this occur as you so speak?” A man asked.
“With my gift, I will give you directions to a Grove.”
The Minister laughed deep from his belly, ignoring the pain of his broken ribs, “A grove—what good will a grove be to us?”
Ophiuchi stepped forward. Those present cowered back as a great cold fire wrapped around the Fairy,
“It is a sacred Grove that has been forgotten. With it, you will have Soldiers who know not the need of sleep, food, or drink. Who will know loyalty only to you, the House of Phoenix,” from the great cold fire that wrapped around the Fairy, Ophiuchi created a bound scroll out of multicolored flames. The fire was beautiful to look upon. The colors constantly shifted. The scroll floated in a bubble of swirling grey smoke before the Minister, between he and the Fairy.
“What do you seek in return?” Minister Toran asked, stepping forward, drawn to it, like a moth to the flame, and temptation of power. His fingers twitched endlessly at the side of his hip.
“You will be given seven hundred and seventy-seven days in which to dispose of the House of White and, Marguerite,” Ophiuchi stated.
“And if we are unable?” Another questioned, looking at the bubble of smoke that hid all markings.
“Then the House of Phoenix and all citizens will suffer seven hundred and seventy-seven years of slumber, under both vine and thorn. Locked away from time itself, forgotten as the realm moves on, and you become nothing but myth,” Ophiuchi’s face remained stern while the three pondered who should be the first to touch that, which floated before them.
They pondered the course of action that was to be taken. All wanted, but none wanted to be the first. It was Minister Toran who approached and put his hand through the bubble. Where his hand entered, the opening burst into a cold, numbing flame that consumed the entire bubble once his stubby fingers had gripped the parchment.
“We accept your offer,” Minister Toran held the scroll close as he spoke out loud for all to hear, “and in seven hundred seventy-seven days, the House of White shall fall.”
“Remember your end well,” Ophiuchi disappeared in a flash of light, “For I will not be merciful when it comes time to pay.”
A high pitched laugh lingered for a moment as the three set out to rebuild their new city of Zhan’ding as the House of Phoenix.
Thirteen.
With great challenge, and using all his mighty skills in the wild open fields of Relland, the Huntsman eventually caught the trail of the Wolves that had attacked Zhan’ding. Days turned to night, and back with no scent to follow. Magic it seemed had control over the Winds themselves. Which prevented him from finding those he hunted. But as is the nature of the Winds, they eventually returned to his favor. The Wolves scent grew. It was faint, but it was theirs. It danced delicately over the fields like pollen.
Through wood, across field, and sand, the Huntsman was led to the remains of a once great labyrinth. A labyrinth that was old when the desert was new. Grey stonewalls eroded by the hungry grains of sand that whipped and blew about harshly. The heat stung against Avarice’s skin. But so dry was the atmosphere that any sweat he accumulated was evaporated away almost immediately. The sun blinded his eyes. Within the center of it all, the tower stood proud and true seemingly impervious to the sands and heat that blew.
The Wolves he hunted had left long ago. Their scent no longer danced upon the Winds. But this is where they stopped. Or at least, this is where the Winds wanted him to be. The unforgiving desert wiped clean their tracks. Avarice flicked the reigns. With difficulty, the horse trekked forward. Hooves sunk deep into the hot sand. The horse trotted a few more paces before it stopped once more. Avarice flicked the reigns again. It refused to walk any further. Legs several inches deep. His head shook back and forth.
“No further?” The blowing sand drowned Avarice’s raspy voice out, but his horse heard clearly and shook its majestic mane with a great neigh and snort.
“Very well old friend,” dismounting, the Huntsman tied his faithful friend to a log that extended out from the sand. A sunken boat in the dune waves, the log was bleached whiter than the stones that built Ashok Orai. Avarice eyes stared at the tower. He stared until he could no longer stare into the blue sky. Eyes blinded by the blistering bright sand. Colorful specks dotted the darkness when he rubbed his eyes.
His hand, like the hunter he was, naturally extended itself to feel the stone tower that he approached. The stone was softer than silk. His fingers enjoyed touching the velvety stone. It reminded him of Marguerite’s skin just after a bath, when her body would be anointed with the most delicate oils that smelled sweetly of lavender and honey. Avarice chuckled to himself. His hand continued to caress the tower. The tower, whose roughness smoothed away by years of blowing particulates, Avarice trudged through the boggy sand that swallowed his boots with each step. He walked the perimeter. The sun burned. His eyes scanned for an entrance.
None.
All he could find was the arched window high above. He stared upwards at the massive window. Against the bright blue sky, and hot sun, a bright grey light pulsed like a beating heart before it disappeared nearly as quickly as it appeared in a flash.
With increased vigor, the Huntsman looked over the mighty tower. He circled like a vulture to its prey. Fingers combed through the dead branches and dried vines that wrapped about. Stopping before a bricked over archway, he found nothing of value. Avarice moved out to the decayed walls. In hopes that some clues remained of who resided within the tower. He hoped that whatever he found would be easy to understand. Along most of the walls that still lined the tower, he found faded images of days long past, and what looked like magic being used. The symbols of writing were unknown to him. He was a hunter, not an academic.
High atop, Ophiuchi stood before the window. The Fairy stared out. Thin ebony robes blew and billowed in the warm breeze like storm clouds. The sun seemed to disappear in the darkness of them, “We have company my Queen.”
The Fairy looked upon the sleeping Theodora Talisa, skin white as snow. Long flowing blonde hair was dull, almost colorless, “Allow me to give him a proper introduction to you.”
Another flash. A ball of grey and aqua mist floated nearly invisible from the window. Ghostly tendrils reached out in all directions, constantly searching for anything to touch. The mist entered the golden trimmed mirrored doorway. The Mirrors surface rippled and undulated softly. Tendrils disappeared.
Outside, the Wind changed direction and the Huntsman inhaled deeply. Fresh vines grew all about the tall tower. Great pink flowers opened. Bright blue sparks showered all around. He could smell the magic. It was vibrant, intoxicating, and made his cock stir. The vines parted as he stared at the magic unfold.
The bricked archway opened silently. The bricks spun and reformed.
Stairs that spiraled up appeared in great puffs of dark clouds. A blanket of haze rolled out of the tower doorway.
In that dark abyss he saw the ghostly mist that was the Fairy. Just in the doorway. Just out of reach of the sun. The Fairies faint light pulsed. Its ghostly tendrils beckoned him to come. They pulled inwards and upwards in the shadows. Avarice heard the Fairies voice call,
Come.
Avarice fought the voice. It beckoned him, his body tried to move,
Come.
Avarice strained. His body hurt. Muscles ached. Brow tight. Sweat upon it
. The tendrils beckoned like fingers. The voice called thrice,
Come.
Avarice stepped forward.
Closer
He was caught, one step after another.
Closer I say.
Avarice heard the high voice of the Fairy call to him. He trekked through the bog like sand. A moth to the flame, hypnotized. Blinded to all else in the world. His horse made a great commotion, but it fell to deaf ears. Every step the Huntsman took, Ophiuchi moved further up into the tower. Avarice rushed the ball. It flashed in intensity with every step. An intensity that swum his head. Deeper into the tower, and up the spiral staircase he began. The archway resealed. He was bathed in the eerie blue darkness of fires kept in crystal orbs. He watched them with intent. They did not unnerve him as they unnerved the Wolf Queen.
Once the final doorway brick spun into place, a mighty sandstorm erupted. The sand raced, and whipped around the tower. It spiraled outwards in all directions. The Huntsman’s horse spooked ripped away from the dead, bleached tree. The creature sprinted away lest be swallowed by the shifting sands. The sandstorm raged wildly. Great waves of sand overtook the galloping horse in its escape. It tried to swim, to flee, but could not. Another crashing wave of sand, and the horse was buried, drug beneath the hot sand. Forgotten by its master. Its flesh to rot away, bones to return in time.
The sandstorm died as quietly, and magically as it arose.
The Huntsman was alone as he climbed higher and higher. Throughout the inner wall, the blue fires raged softly. They cast areas of stairwell into an eerie light. His eyes never blinked. He continued to stare ahead in a daze. The Fairy hid in the shadows, barely able to outshine the flames with its own light.
Come
The ethereal voice called through the fires that wildly flickered. Ghostly tendrils brushed Avarice’s cheeks. An electric chill ran through him,
Come
The ball passed through a bright doorway at the top of the stairwell. The Huntsman stopped. It was a strange opening that cast no light into the stairwell. The gaseous ball intensified within the room. The Huntsman could make out more tendrils that moved upwards. He stared into the barren room. Only the mysterious ball floated in it.
Enter
His foot without question moved forward. A numbing, damp chill ran the length of his body. He shivered violently.
What was an empty room became full of furniture, magical apothecary, and Mirrors. Hundreds of Mirrors hung along the walls. He didn’t care, or was not fazed by such petty parlor tricks. He was used to such glamour spells, having seen countless in his service to the Queen. He turned back and found he came through a Mirror. Touching it, solid. He knocked upon it. No echo, there was nothing but solid stone behind it. He was locked in that tower.
“Impressive,” Avarice talked to himself.
In the Mirror, he could see the ball of mist. The Fairies tendrils wafted over the sleeping Witch, while at the same time, reached and ensnared the Huntsman. They wrapped around his waist, muscular arms, and gently caressed his face before wrapping loosely around his thick neck.
“Approach her,” the same voice called into Avarice’s mind.
Theodora Talisa, sound asleep within her four post bed. Almost silver hair sprawled out in all directions. The Fairies tendrils slowly brought him closer to the bed.
Stepping forward to see the sleeping woman, the Huntsman smelled the air. A familiar odor hung upon it. An odor he had smelled many times in his past. Avarice inhaled again. His lungs filled deeply thrice the scent that hung over the room. He did not notice it before. His eyes grew hungry. His cock once more stirred in his pants. A crooked and wicked smirk as he remembered Lady Astra. It was her scent the aroused him.
Faint creaking and slithering pierced Avarice’s ears. Ophiuchi disappeared in a flash, and pop.
Fool!
Ophiuchi’s feminine voice reflected a deep undertone and echo.
The Huntsman was in the air. Head grazed the wooden beams. Bound by ankles and wrists. Around his neck wrapped thick strands of grey hair. Limbs held out. He looked as a rag doll. Being pulled apart by children.
“How dare you intrude unannounced, upon my sanctuary!” Theodora Talisa slid off and stood next to her bed, barefoot. Delicate pink slip shone like the moon. Her eyes stared at the Huntsman. They pierced him. Hair squeezed, “who are you?”
“I am merely a traveler. Lost in the desert,” Avarice responded.
A few strands made their way around his aged leather belt, and with ease snapped it in half. The hair curled around the broken leather and brought it to the Witches extended palm. The hair unfurled as she grasped it.
“You seem well equipped, for a mere traveler. Lost in the desert.” Theodora Talisa unsheathed the ornate silver dagger. It was etched with carvings most ancient, with a ruby, in the shape of a heart just below the handle. The blade was not straight, but curved ever so slightly to the West. It shimmered in her hand. Theodora Talisa ran her fingers lightly over the carvings. They gave a tingle to her skin. A chorus of whispers overtook the air. Even Avarice could hear the voices. They were loud in the silent tower. The voices stopped when the Witch moved her hand away, “there is ancient magic cast into the blade of a simple traveler.”
Theodora Talisa’s eyes gazed upwards at the bound man.
“Wolves roam and gather power once more,” Avarice grunted.
“They have been reckless,” Theodora Talisa tightened her grip around the Huntsman’s strong thick neck.
“Then one cannot be too cautious,” Avarice adjusted his neck. The hair continued to slither around tightly.
Theodora Talisa brought him closer, until their noses practically touched. All the hair that bound Avarice continued to dig into his skin, “This is terribly uncomfortable.”
He tried to chuckle, but inhaled sharply as Theodora Talisa squeezed, “I do enjoy when my prey struggle. Makes it more enjoyable for me. Let’s them know who is in control.”
The Witch commented with a kiss to Avarice’s cheek.
“Then I shall sadly disappoint you,” Avarice struggled, “I am not the submissive type.”
“The day is still young,” Theodora Talisa squeezed tighter again. Avarice let out a great groan. She enjoyed the sound he made. It made her weak, but she wanted answers, “I know of only a single silver blade cast with this magic. How did you come across it, stranger?”
“Luck and chance,” the Huntsman inhaled, “or a gambling match, I was never one to remember such trivial details?”
Theodora Talisa squeezed tighter, Avarice gasped for air. He clawed at the cord of hair around his neck, “There is not such thing as luck and chance. Only destiny and fate.”
“Then—then perhaps,” Avarice spoke through gasps of air, stubble face turning blue, “I was to acquire it—through—through destiny—fate.”
Theodora Talisa’s hair grew tighter. Her mouth did not move, but Avarice could hear her voice in his head, “Tell me.”
The terribly gentle, and powerful voice rang as loudly as the great bell of Ashok Orai in his ears.
Tell me
Over and over the monstrous voice sounded.
Tell me
Over and over the words repeated.
Tell me!
Growing louder each time, “TELL ME!”
The Witches’ hair grew less grey. It shimmered golden blonde. Eyes grew wide. She inhaled the strong aroma and natural musk that he cast off. She licked her lips. Avarice let out a gasp.
“Yes—now it is all clear.”
Avarice winced and strained. He felt his energy leave. How, he knew not. His eyes grew heavy, limbs equally so. The Witch spoke,
“In that ounce of life I have stolen. I have seen it. You, you, are the famed Huntsman of the greatest Witch that ever lived, the Queen!” Theodora Talisa cackled to herself softly. Hands clapped together in giddy excitement.
“H-how?” The Huntsman gasped. He struggled to break free. Face turned purple. Strong hands clawed
at her hair. It made no effect.
Theodora Talisa ignored him and squeezed even tighter. The Huntsman bellowed and roared, his eyes glazed over, “We shall discover the great mystery that is you, for your past is deep, and hidden away.”
“Release. Me.” Avarice pleaded. His eyes and body tired.
“In time. But right now, you are mine,” Theodora Talisa squeezed again as she cackled. Avarice groaned into the air. His eyes grew heavy. They closed, as is head and body fell limp. He dangled in the air. Theodora Talisa closed her own eyes, and enjoyed her prey.
Fourteen.
Marguerite returned to Ashok Orai with nothing but sadness upon her brow. She on her majestic horse took her time. They wandered the long stretches of streets to the palace alone. It had been far too long since she strolled around the Market District, or even the Fountain District.
How she loved the smell of the water as the fountains splashed. It calmed her breaking heart. It was in the mix of fresh water fountains, and salt-water fountains with its coast like misting that Marguerite wished for a fresh pastry to eat upon the center fountain as she dismounted her horse near it.
The fountain’s white marble was aged, but not dirty and consisted of twelve horses, whose hind legs were great spiraling fish tails. The mighty beasts rode upon perfectly carved and formed waves. They formed a circle in the center of the fountain. A powerful spout of water shot upwards, while twelve smaller streams spat from the horse’s mouths. The riders, twelve High Lords of Ashok Orai, each was armor clad.
Children played in the mist it created as the Winds blew. Silver and bronze coins, each with the generic rose, littered the fountain’s bed. How she loved those coins.
She herself took a coin out of her satchel. Marguerite stared at it, as she held to it tight between two fingers. She never grew tired of looking upon them. She loved what they stood for, the unity of the two great cities.
Or at least she did. Events of the present made her question all that she stood for. Question all that the two cities stood for.
Bound by Roses (The Bound Series Book 1) Page 16